Home, From Me To You
by LionAmongTheSheep
Summary: Italy and Germany, and their views on what 'home' means.


**Home: Italy to Germany**

Home is where you feel safe. Home is where you go and you are enveloped by sheer warmth and security and love and things that make you smile inside and out. I will always love my house. I'll always love the way it always smells like pasta sauce, and the way the vines on the side of the house bloom tiny white flowers in the spring that remind me of fairies skirts, and the cherry wood floors that always make a delightful clicking noise when I wear my boots. But it is undoubtedly lonely, since Romano went to stay with Spain, and even though I love this house, it is not where my home is.

My home is with Germany. Germany, who is big and sturdy and beautiful and his house matches him well. I will always love Germany's home, because it is where I feel at home. Germany's house, that smells of burning wood and sausages and leather and Germany's shampoo. Germany's home, that welcomes me when all other places on this Earth do not, where Germany's arms will hold me. I feel safe, and loved, and at such immense peace that I always feel like such a different person.

I especially love being there in the Christmas time. I spend almost all of my winters at Germany's house. Germany's house, with its larger than life carved fireplace that crackles oranges and yellows in the deep red room, the tapestry hung above lit just right to give it the beauty it so deserves. I always help hang the large wreaths that adorn the mantle, the little silver trinkets and red bows that litter the greenery drawing my eyes with wonder. The poinsettias that decorate the floor around the fireplace and the antique candles that are placed along the edges of the room, golden ribbons hanging in long ringlets to the floor are especially preserved for this season, but the large globe that sits dusty in the corner is always there. I haven't touched it in a long while, but I remember when I first came here, I was fascinated.

Even though the red upholstered chairs that graced each side of the patterned rug looked uncomfortable, they were actually my favorite place to sit while I was there, my legs tucked to my chest as I sipped at wine and talked to Germany about everything and nothing, in that beautiful room that made me warm as I looked at it.

But every year, whether it snowed, or gales of wind battered the outdoors, Germany always managed to go cut down and bring in a beautiful tree. Oh, it was indeed the most beautiful thing in the room, always exciting me when I walked through the large front doors to see that he waited for me to begin decorating. It was always my favorite time, hanging up those impeccably beautiful burgundy, gold, and silver glass ornaments, the eggshell white lights sparkling magnificently off of the glittering surfaces. Germany always told me how my face would light up whilst I did this, pure indescribable joy in my honey eyes. I understood, because I felt it of him as well, and once I'd climb onto his shoulders to place the large red and gold bow, with its cascading ribbons that curled down like a sweet little girl's blonde locks on a breezy summer day, he would always smile. A smile that was reserved for these moments.

I feel at home there. It is beautiful, it is calm, It is everything that I need. But as long as Germany is with me, I am home, no matter where we tread, no matter what hardship may follow us, no matter if we are homeless or live in a mansion much bigger than this house, my home is with Germany. My home is safe. My home is where I go to be enveloped by sheer warmth and security and love and things that make me smile inside and out. I will always love my home.

**Home: Germany to Italy**

One would think that a large man would need a large home, rooms that stretch wide and hold many things that one would never use, but own for appearance sake. One would assume that in order to have a real home it must be large and expensive and a product of wealth because you worked hard for it. I do not believe this. I believe that a home is where you can come back from a day of frustrating and tiring meetings to be greeted with warmth that only another soul can emanate, a place where you do not have to fear really living in the space because everything is so impeccable. It is a place to really, truly live, and be thoroughly happy as you do so.

As much as I pride my house, its grand fireplace that I do so love reading beside, the pristine kitchen that I personally never use, and the tall windows that let in much sunlight during the days, it is not home. It does not warm me, it does not protect my heart and soul, it does not bring life to my eyes and it does not fulfill my everyday living. It is just a house, too big and too empty for one man.

My home is with Italy, in his rustic and beautiful villa that breathes Italy from every floorboard and crack in the walls. The gardens and vines that cling to the cream walls, all the result of work and love and effort, these things were signs of life. The house was a home, sunny and bright, the walls all cream and beige painted with white trim and a ceiling adorned with chandeliers.

While Italy loves with all of his beautiful heart to come to my house during holidays, I always insist that I want to spend time in his home as well, decorate it to be just as beautiful as he said mine was during the winter months. We always did. He always made us hot chocolate, smiling warmly when I placed a hand on his soft hair as a token of appreciation. It was the only time that made me happy, being with Italy, and when we sat in front of the marble fireplace in the large decorative arm chairs with their silk throw pillows, the fire crackling and speaking to us through the night, I felt at peace with myself. The world was okay.

His presence relaxed me, even though most of the time he was hyperactive and giddy and energetic, and he never hesitated to move into my lap once our hot drinks were finished and the mugs were safely in the sink. We spent that time in warmth, not speaking much, but talking to each other all the same.

I always admired Italy's home as I sat there, the dark and soft decorative carpet beneath my feet and atop the dark cherry hardwood floors that were always kept pristine because Italy loved them so, and I could tell, always. When we decorated, I hung a large handmade wreath above his fireplace, red bulbs placed into the green bristles, and he would stand in front of me, his small body carded between my chest and the mantle as he draped the green garland, adorned with pinecones and smaller red bulbs. He kept the candlesticks, encased in hand painted glass, lit all through the night, flickering in unison with the larger flames below them.

Italy's favorite part was always the tree, which I brought for him every year. He'd told me how much he adored the red that was so frequent in my home, so I bought him a copious amount of red tree ornaments and a large red velvet bow with gold trim to crown the tree, which he was so happy about I could feel my heart leap. We strung the white lights on together, walking in circles around the tree as Italy giggled and chased me and it turned into a game as it does every year, his smile so sincere. It was beautiful, when we'd finished, the whole room glowing with flickering warmth and bright, open colors.

We would never stay up too much later, shutting off the gold chandelier, with its cascading crystals and quaint little lampshades, before heading upstairs to the bedroom that held the canopied mahogany bed whose white satin sheets never ceased to amaze me. It was home, truly, in my heart. Where Italy was, I would always be okay.

Italy was my home. If I had Italy, I would never be homeless, I would always have acceptance, never be feared or rejected or loathed, only loved. Loved to the full capacity that any being could stand being loved, and loving. I loved my home, truly, irrevocably, fiercly.


End file.
